


21st Century's Yesterday

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prussia and Hungary encounter each other through the years (1211 – 1989).</p>
            </blockquote>





	21st Century's Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Yukari_Rin](http://yukari_rin.livejournal.com) for the [HetaliaFic](http://hetaliafic.livejournal.com) Secret Santa Exchange 2009.
> 
> First/second person narrative. Hetalian-like artistic license and liberties taken with history and language. Also, there are hints of Austria/Hungary, but I thought it would be misleading if I included that in the official tags.
> 
> Additional notes follow the fic; since they exceed AO3 limitations, I've had to include them with the text of the story.

_1211 – The Burzenland_

I've been waiting for you. I won't know it's _you_ I've been waiting for until I see you at the head of the column as your people arrive. I thought I was waiting for all of you, for this meeting between my people and yours, for you officially to grant us the Burzenland. But when I see you—when I see you, I will know it was you and you alone I've been waiting for all this time.

We haven't seen each other yet, but we're about to. I'm sitting on a rise overlooking the meeting ground. It's my duty to keep watch. The Knights took me in and raised me up to a place of honor among them, even though I look like a child. I'm not a child, though. I know things children don't know. I know things I myself don't yet know I know; at least that's what the Knights have told me, and they haven't lied to me yet. One thing I know is that I'm not like them. Sometimes I see others and I _know_ they're like me, but they're all _old_. Even if they don't look it, they act it. I don't want to be like them. I've been like this for twenty years; I'm going to stay like this forever.

The back of my neck prickles before I pick you out, and I grin already to know that there's someone like me over there. I scan the column, and there you are: another boy like me. You're shining, the sun glinting off your helmet, your breastplate; the wind comes to billow out the standard you're bearing. The distance is too great for me to be sure, but I think you're holding the standard with both hands, and I don't think you're holding the reins at all. It looks like you're guiding your steed—black as a starless midnight, a marvel to behold—with your knees alone. I have seen other men ride like that, but every time I've tried it myself, I've fallen off. Usually the Knights laugh, and I laugh, too, even though I don't think it's funny. If I don't laugh, though, they tease me worse. Laughing is one of the first things I learned to do. I look at you, shining on your steed. I would fair bet no one teases _you_.

Mounting up, I gallop down to join the Knights as we ride to meet you, taking my place near the head of our party. When our two sides come together, the head of our Order speaks a greeting. As you listen, you cast me a glance; before I understand that our eyes have met, you have returned yours to the speaker.

I am surprised when you hand off your standard. "In the name of Andrew the Second, King of Hungary, I am bid welcome you to the Burzenland," you say. You keep speaking, but I don't hear it because I am staring at you—you, who are like me; you, who speaks for a King. I can see now that you are older than I, perhaps a man grown, but youth is intertwined with age in you. The sun seeks you out. You shimmer. You speak, and everyone listens. If you are what I am to become when I grow up, then I shall start right away now!

The Knights are turning the heads of their horses, and I realize you are turning yours as well. A part of my mind has learned to catch things when the other part wanders, so I figure out that both sides have agreed to meet on the morrow for the official proclamation granting us the land. I return to camp with the Knights, but as soon as is seemly, I'm off again. Sometimes the things I don't know that I know come to me as feelings, like when my skin prickled at your approach. A feeling is telling me now that you're out there, not with your camp. You're out there, and maybe now that you've seen me, you're waiting for me, too.

Thunder rolling low through the high grasses leads me to you. The hooves of your horse churn a storm along the ground as you gallop, as you _fly_ along. The horse breaks this way and now that, dodging invisible foes, wheeling mid-stride, soaring. He wears no saddle, no bridle; he wears only you. And then I look again, and I see that it is the other way around, that you are wearing him, communicating your wishes through the muscles of your legs. I look again, and it is as if he is another limb, another muscle between your legs, an inseparable part of you.

You turn again. You have seen me and you don't waver as you bear down on me. I am not afraid. There is time for me to move to one side or the other, but I choose not to. I am a rock. I am full of awe. I will stand before you; I must.

There is a _whoosh_ as the thunder, unable to stop when you do, rushes past me where I stand. Our eyes meet for the second time and hold a moment before you separate from your horse, swinging your leg over and dropping to the ground. I reach out for the horse's head, changing the motion to a stroke of his nose when I remember there's no bridle to grab. "You don't have a squire?" I don't wait for you to respond before offering, "I could squire for you, while you're here."

You look at me again, your gaze dropping down to the black cross on my chest before returning to meet my eyes. "You are with the Teutons."

"Yes," I allow. "But we're friends, aren't we?" Inspiration strikes: "You came to give us a gift, so I'm giving you one!" I grin.

You don't answer; you don't accept, but you also don't turn me away. As you loose a waterskin from your belt, your horse noses my hand where it's still resting on him, and I stroke his forehead. "I like your horse. What's his name?"

Your smile is for the horse. "He has no need of a name."

"Oh." My horse is named By God's Grace, but it doesn't seem as if you care to know about that. "Well, what's _your_ name?"

"I have many names." You swig from the waterskin, letting rivulets drip down your chin and throat.

Perseverance is a virtue. "What do they call you?" I ask, gesturing towards where your people have made camp.

"They call me many things."

No one has ever said such a thing when I've asked their name. "Me, too," I blurt out. "I'm called many things, too. Such as." I try to think of some of the impressive things I call myself, even if I'm the only one who uses them. "The Awesome G—" I catch myself. Looking at you, The Awesome Gilbert doesn't sound too awesome. "—Guy Who Leads Us Into Battle."

Waterskin raised to your lips, you make a swallowing sound—though whether you are swallowing water or swallowing laughter, I cannot say. I eye you, not wanting to feel suspicious, not wanting to feel a fool. "You don't believe me?"

"I believe you." You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and refasten the waterskin to your belt. "I was leading men into battle when I was as small as you."

My eyes widen, suspicion and foolishness forgotten. "You were?" I was lying only a little; I do go into battle, and sometimes near the front, though the Knights keep me well-protected at all times. I bet you didn't need anyone to protect you, even when you were as little as I. "Were you really in the vanguard?" I ask, and, "Did you always win? How many men have you killed? Did your horse ever die under you? Were you sad? What's the scariest thing that's ever happened?"

The last few words barely make it out on the breath I'd taken. As I'm sucking in a deeper breath for the next round, you say, "Yes; no one does; that is not something to brag of; yes; the first time; and," you look me in the eye, so calm I shiver a little, "the scariest thing that has ever happened to me is too scary for your ears."

I nod my solemn belief. You have taken out a whetstone to hone your dagger, and since you have not told me to go away, I sit beside you and watch. I glance from your hands to your eyes, half-expecting to find them closed—but they're open, and our gazes connect.

"Did you bring a weapon?"

The cool way you're looking at me makes my mouth drier than the continuing scrape of stone against steel.

"You wish to spar with me, don't you?"

Your expression hasn't changed, but I find myself grinning and then nodding.

"Very well," you say, "go find us two staffs."

I'm off and running before I even realize I'm up. My mad dash through camp does not cause anyone even to look up; they're accustomed to my antics, so unless I'm shouting to raise an alarm, they hardly notice anymore.

On my way back to you, I suddenly wonder if you will be there still. Did you only wish to rid yourself of me and my questions? Was this your way of making an escape without having me trail after you?

But then I come up over the rise, and there you are. I will never doubt you again.

"Show me what you know," you say, so I do, shadowfighting myself while you observe. When I glance over to see what you think of me, you say, "If your staff were steel and your shadow a man, you would be bleeding now."

Before I can control myself, I laugh.

Unhurried, you get to your feet, staff in hand. "Prepare yourself," you say, so I pull my staff out of the ground where I'd staked my shadow in my laughter, and set myself, ready to meet you. "Come at me," you say, and I do, rushing in with a battle-cry, looking you in the eye—and the next thing I see is a glimpse of blue sky before the sun washes out my vision.

Your shadow saves me. Or so I think, until I feel your staff against my shoulder. "You're bleeding again," you say.

This time I don't laugh.

I pick myself up when you let me, and when you invite me to try again, I don't worry about impressing you with my battle-cry. I fall face down on the ground this time. The third time you fell me, I try to roll, but your staff pins my hip to the ground. "Again," you say, so we go again, and again.

You're fast. You're so much faster than anyone I've fought before. You're so fast that even when I know I'm going to fall, I can't seem to do anything to prevent it. The Knights teach me lessons like this, and then they show me how not to die. But you just keep knocking me down, and knocking me down, and knocking me down.

This time when I fall, I decide not to get up again. You prod me in the belly and it tickles, but I don't laugh, I don't move at all, I even hold my breath. You're looking at me, so I let out my breath and explain, "I'm dead. You killed me."

You smile, and this time the smile is all for me. "No. Your life can be saved."

I have a feeling that you've just saved it, even though I don't know how. I get up and dust myself off, and when I look up I see that you've mounted up. "What about the second scariest thing?" I ask suddenly. "Or the third—hey, will you tell me about the third scariest thing that's ever happened to you?"

"Perhaps another day." You wheel your nameless horse and trot off. Your pace is easy and I think about catching up, running along beside you, but I just stand and watch.

Only after you've disappeared do I realize you never told me your name, any of your names. But I smile, because I know I will see you again; I know you, with or without your name.

 

 _1527 – Pannonian Plain_

Ever since the Grand Master secularized our territory and became a duke, and I became what I was meant to be, I've taken to roaming, stretching, visiting; learning the world in ways I didn't know before. I'm out on the Pannonian Plain when I see another rider. It's you, of course. In the three hundred years since we sparred in the Burzenland, we've seen each other here and there, but we haven't spoken again.

Just as I'm wondering if you've noticed me yet, you fly away on your horse. Taking that for an invitation, I let out a whoop and spur my mount after you.

When I finally catch up with you, you're sitting on cleared ground, tending a fire as you cook a stew that smells delicious. Your horse, a dark bay, is grazing nearby. As I rein up, you look at me. "Greetings, Awesome Guy Who Leads the Teutonic Knights Into Battle."

Your remembrance makes my smile blaze hotter and brighter than your cookfire. "Greetings, Guy With Many Names Who Won't Say Any of Them." Dismounting, I tether my horse near yours, then sit down beside you without being asked. "But I know who you are—you're Hungary!"

At that, your eyes flicker: a sadness, a defiance, something else. My brow furrows. Now that I know what I am, I also know what you are. I am certain of your identity. But that flicker causes me doubt. A terrible feeling comes over me that those words I spoke were more intrusive to you than being followed or joined uninvited. I think maybe I should apologize, even if I'm not sure why.

Then you say, "You are not wrong. I am Hungary." Defiance wins out in your eyes. It makes you smile, even if you won't let your mouth show it. It makes _me_ smile, and I do show it. You tilt your head and study me. "And you are now Prussia."

"I am!" Pride in what I've become flushes through me. There is an extra spike of joy that you know me, that I am _known_. The whole world will know me, if they don't already. "I'm not so little anymore," I say, puffing out my chest. "Soon I'll be bigger than you!"

"Perhaps." Without warning, you snatch up one of the iron pans you'd removed from the fire and swing it, spilling out the contents as it arcs through the air and crashes into my skull.

When I open my eyes, I am not surprised to find myself looking at the sky above. The impact of the pan is still ringing in my head, so I decide against moving just yet. In my peripheral vision, I see you stirring contents into a new stew. Without turning your head, you slide your gaze to mine. "But I am still quicker."

The laughter makes the ringing in my head worse, but that doesn't stop me laughing.

 

 _1739 – a Bavarian tavern_

I've learned a lot in the last five hundred years. One of the things I've learned is that part of being what I am is having human desires—such as the desire to enjoy a tankard of mead and good company in a fine tavern.

This tavern is not particularly fine and the mead is only passable, but quantity is making up for quality, and the company is excellent. It gets even better when you walk in. And better yet, you are not with that annoying guy you've taken to palling around with. I hail you, elbowing France to make room for you. You hesitate, but then you come over to join us.

I clap you on the back and give you one of the fresh tankards from the round the serving wench has just delivered. France looks indignant, until I point out that this gives him another excuse to talk to her. He has been remarking on her "marvelous, heart-shaped face" and the curves of her lips and hips and bosom all evening. To be honest, I don't understand him sometimes. A heart-shaped face? I have to question whether he has ever seen a human heart. I have, spilled from the chest of a foe cut in two, and I don't know why anyone would want a face like that. I have tried to distract him with talk of the important, _interesting_ things going on in our world these days, but he pointed out that tonight we are being human.

Now that you're here, I'll let him chase all the skirts he likes. "We were just speaking of you," I say, taking a swig of mead. The tankard bangs harder than I meant it to when I set it down. "About that Maria Theresa of yours."

The corners of your mouth twitch down. " _Queen_ Maria Theresa," you correct.

I pretend not to hear you. "And all these problems she's creating."

" _Queen_ Maria Theresa," you say again. "She has been our elected queen for sixteen years now."

Yours, maybe; not mine. "The problem," I explain, raising my tankard but not drinking yet, "is that she's weak. Though it's hard to fault her for that; after all, she's only a woman."

Your closed fist crashes into my teeth.

I am surprised, for I didn't know chivalry ran in your blood.

Someone is laughing, but it isn't me as I sit in a puddle of what might be spilled mead. And it isn't you as you walk away without a backward glance.

 

 _May 29, 1867 — Schönbrunn Palace, Vienna_

You didn't send me an invitation, but I came anyhow; when have I ever required a proper invitation? Since I know you know that about me, I would like to believe you didn't send one because you knew I would come anyhow. That's just a fancy, though; I know that I am unwelcome at your union ceremony. If I get caught—well, I just won't get caught.

I've dressed the part in fashionable finery and wig. I look every inch the respectable, royal gentleman and thus far no one has questioned my presence among the legitimate guests. You aren't among them, though, so I make excuses and go in search of you. I don't know if I'll find you, and I don't know what I'll say to you, though I'll do my best not to laugh.

When I turn yet another corner onto yet another hallway, I see a beautiful woman at the far end, standing by a window. She's dressed in a silk gown, ivory, with splashes of red and green. Those are your colors; yours and that other guy's, so I take her to be more than a guest. Perhaps she is participating in the ceremony in some way; perhaps she knows where I may find you.

"Pardons, Mi'lady," I say as I approach, and she turns from the window; her face is as lovely as the rest of her. "Would you happen to know—"

"You!"

Mid-stride, I come to a dead stop.

I gape as your voice comes out of the beautiful woman's mouth: "What are you doing here?" The beautiful woman with your voice gives me a hard, suspicious stare. I know that stare. That is _your_ stare. These are _your_ eyes.

Oh.

 _Oh!_

You repeat the question with the addition of one or two unladylike words, which confirms to me that it really is you—but I still don't say anything. I try to speak, but still there are no words; my jaw hangs open. All I can think is that now I understand why I got punched in the mouth in 1739, and why you looked so satisfied in 1748 at the treaty signing in Aachen, as if you'd won everything. A woman successfully defending the right of another woman to rule; perhaps you did win everything.

This, though; this is not the taste of victory. "I'm sorry I forced this day," I hear myself say. "I didn't anticipate this result when I went to war with that guy."

You give me an unreadable look, and it's only as you're looking away that I realize the strangeness was in how your eyes softened. "This day has been long in coming." Your words are barely audible. "Too long." Your chest rises and falls with a sigh, but you don't look sad or regretful; I catch the hint of a smile. It's a private smile, not meant for anyone else to see—or at least, I suddenly understand, not meant for me.

I swallow, but the lump that has formed in my throat remains, so I cough to dislodge it.

All softness is gone as you look up sharply, your expression defensive, ready to be mocked.

Quick as ever, you snatch up a nearby vase of flowers when I take a step towards you. I'm quick enough to raise my hands, palms facing out to show I mean no harm. Slowly I take another step, and another, and another, until I am standing directly before you. Slowly, oh so slowly, I reach to pluck a flower from the vase.

"You shouldn't have to hit anyone on your wedding day." I hold your gaze as I tuck the flower behind your ear.

You put up a hand to touch it, your fingertips lingering on the petals. You don't smile. There's no word in any language I know for the way you are looking at me now—but it's better than a smile.

 

 _1920 — a Budapest bar_

I order you another drink, but you only toy with the glass for a while before pushing it away, so I down it myself. It's only been a couple of years since your breakup from that guy, but when I mention that, you shake your head and tell me that's not why you can't smile. It's not the individual you and the individual him, you tell me: "It's never been about that." I don't believe you, but I can see that it's important for you to believe, so I don't contradict you. "It's the land," you say. "It's the _people_ lost to me."

You've been through this before. You've seen your borders changed, your people absorbed by another. You've been sad, but always strong. It's not that you're weak now—though I'm almost tempted to suggest that, just to see if you'll punch me in the mouth again. You just seem so uncertain, as if you don't know who you are right now.

To inspire you, I change the subject to myself. I tell you about my new boss and what he's been helping me do as the brand new me, the Free State of Prussia. "I'm pretty much the most awesome thing going on these days," I conclude, raising a glass to myself.

You laugh through your nose, but you don't deny it. "Yes, you are." You take the glass from my hand and bring it to your lips, drinking to me.

As I signal the barkeep for another round, I make a silent vow that if the opportunity should arise, I will do whatever I can to restore your lands and peoples to you, to return to you your smile.

 

 _February 27, 1947 — Königsberg_

I've been sitting on this bench for a while, not because you're late but because I wanted some time by myself, alone.

Of course, it would be difficult for you to be late since you don't know we're meeting. I'm sure you'll come, though. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon.

And there you are now. You're wearing a simple dress, darker and more drab than you usually favor, but you're not without color: there are the flowers in your arms, and one tucked behind your ear. There's a weight to your steps, and a grace, too. You're looking straight ahead as you walk right by me, like I'm not even there. A breeze rifles through your hair, your clothing, picking up the hem of your dress.

Fingers to the corners of my mouth, I wolf-whistle.

Sure enough, you whirl around with a fierce glare, a sharp retort on your lips—but when you see me, your eyes widen, the words you might have spoken disappear on your inhale.

Grinning, I gesture at the flowers you don't realize you've dropped. "Hey, baby. Are those for the awesome me?"

With an uncharacteristic blush, you bend to start gathering them. I get off the bench to help you. When we reach for the same flower, our fingertips brush; you relinquish it to me with a jerk...but then your hand brushes mine as I close it around the last flower, and lingers a moment.

Then you're on your feet, and I get to mine, too. You watch my hand as I slot the last flower into your now-haphazard bouquet; your eyes remain downcast even when my hand drops to my side. There's a fullness to the silence, but it's not uncomfortable. I'm in no hurry. I'll stand here as long as you want, without words if that's what you want.

"They dissolved y—" You stop yourself, still looking into the flowers. "Prussia. They abolished Prussia."

"Yep," I agree. "They sure did."

When your foot nudges mine, I look down to where our toes are touching. Mine wiggle inside my shoe.

You glance up with me when I lift my face. Our eyes meet. "You're still here." You nudge harder, then rest your foot on mine. My toes wiggle more beneath yours. Your hand only hovers.

I touch your face on the pretext of brushing back your hair and tucking it behind your ear, beneath the flower stem. "I am."

You capture my hand before I can take it away, holding it against your cheek before letting it fall free. "Who are you now?"

"I—think I might be East Germany now." I'm really not sure about this, but my brother can't be on both sides of the Iron Curtain. Maybe someone else is East Germany, but if so, I haven't met him. Or her. You must not have seen him (or her) either, because you don't contradict me. So I flash you my devil-may-care grin. "But, y'know, they call me many things." Your lips curve, then blossom into a full smile, and I know you're remembering the first time we met, too. "You can call me Gilbert."

"Well, Gilbert—these _are_ for the awesome you." Unceremoniously, you shove the flowers at me. My arms come up to catch them, and I realize they really were for me—they _are_ for me. Now it's my turn to blush, but you miss it because you're already striding off. "Elizaveta," you say without turning back or slowing your pace.

I grin, and hurry to catch up.

 

 _November 9, 1989 — Berlin_

Amidst all the glorious, chaotic, _awesome_ joy, I've anchored myself to my brother. It would have only been another week, but I couldn't wait that long, so I took out that part of the message before I delivered it. I felt guilty as I burned the original, but now—now I know I did the right thing. I'm holding onto my brother like I'm never going to let go again. Maybe I won't. He's solid in a way that I don't feel myself to be at this moment, so warm in my arms and against my chest as I drape across his back, watching the euphoria unfold, as men and women pour across the breaking, broken Wall in both directions, reaching for each other, uniting again and for the first time.

I see you before you see me. You're looking around, searching in the crowd. For a moment, I think you're looking for me—but then that guy calls your name, and you light up. You wrap yourselves in each other, and I wonder if that's what my brother and I looked like in those first few moments. It's different between you and Austria than it is between me and my brother, of course, but there's something about love, no matter what form it takes...I don't know, I don't know—but it's true, isn't it?

Your eyes are closed as you kiss him, and stay closed as you rest your chin on his shoulder, your arms tight around each other. Your face is smudged with dirt, your dress torn from clambering over and through the rubble, your hands bleeding where you tore at the Wall, but you look really beautiful. As beautiful as I've ever seen you. And even though there's no sun, you're shimmering as brightly as that first time I laid eyes on you.

Then you open your eyes and scan this awesome night—and our gazes connect.

The joyful chaos swirls around us. Time itself swirls around us, but it doesn't touch us in our gaze. Our gaze lasts for seven hundred and seventy-eight years; or maybe only for the blink of an eye.

I blink again, dust from the crumbling Wall in my eye, blurring my sight. I blink, and still look at you, and you are still looking at me. Your mouth shapes a word, and even though I'm too far for the sound to reach me, I read my name on your lips.

I smile.

After a moment, you do, too.

This isn't the first time I've seen you smile. I don't know if it will be the last. What I do know is that I will remember this smile until the end of my days. Even after that—and if there isn't an after now, I'll make one when I get there—even after the end of days, I'll wait for you. You can even bring that guy, if you want. I'll be waiting for you, Elizaveta. You know that, don't you?

Your smile tells me you do.

 

* * *

  
NOTES: 

  * My efforts to respect both history and Hetalia canon may not have been entirely successful. One of the biggest conflicts came in the age difference between Gilbert and Elizaveta, which Hetalia seems to suggest is not large. Taking the Duchy of Prussia (1525) as the start of what would come to be the Kingdom of Prussia and eventually the short lived Free State of Prussia, and assuming that's what Gilbert represents (as opposed to the region called Prussia), I wrote him at the start here (1211) as a potential nation who doesn't know exactly what he is, but is recognizably "other." Hungary, on the other hand, was definitely an established kingdom in 1211, so I went with making Elizaveta older than Gilbert.
  * **1211** — In 1211, Andrew II of Hungary granted the [Burzenland](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burzenland) to the [Order of the Teutonic Knights](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teutonic_Knights), who were helping to defend the southeast borders of the Kingdom of Hungary. This was the first notable mention I could find of a connection between the two, so while the Teutonic Knights and the Kingdom of Hungary obviously must have had contact before the granting of the Burzenland, I chose this as the first time Gilbert and Elizaveta met.
  * **1527** — The [Duchy of Prussia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duchy_of_Prussia) was established in 1525 when the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights secularized their lands. I've chosen this as the moment of Gilbert's fully realized self-awareness. On the other side, Hungary lost the decisive [Battle of Mohács](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Moh%C3%A1cs) to the Ottoman Empire, which meant the end of the independent Kingdom of Hungary as a unified entity. This chance meeting between Gilbert and Elizaveta on [the Pannonian Plain](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pannonian_Plain), which has no historical basis that I could find, is set the following year in the wake of Hungary's setback and Prussia's new status.
  * **1739** — Another purely fictional encounter, this time set just before the outbreak of the War of Austrian Succession. The "annoying guy" Gilbert is so happy not to see is, of course, Austria.
  * **1867** — The official formation of the Austro-Hungarian Empire followed Austria's defeat in the Austro-Prussian War and exit from the German Confederation. Gilbert is taking responsibility for forcing Elizaveta into the union with Roderich, but there was more to it (though the personal of feelings of nation-tans probably wasn't one of the factors!).
  * **1920** — As terms of the Treaty of Trianon, Hungary's borders were redrawn, resulting in a significant loss of territory and native Hungarian population. From 1918 to 1920, Hungary went through several rapid structural/governmental changes: Austro-Hungary was dissolved and the Hungarian Democratic Republic formed in 1918; then the Hungarian Soviet Republic was declared in 1919; and finally the Regency of Hungary (also called Kingdom of Hungary) was proclaimed in 1920. All of this led to turmoil and difficult days for Hungary. On the other hand Otto Braun, who became the first Prime Minister of the Free State of Prussia (established when the Kingdom of Prussia was dissolved in 1918), implemented several trend-setting reforms and is considered one of the most capable Social Democrats in history.
  *  **1947** — Prussia was abolished formally by the [Allied Control Council](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allied_Control_Council) on February 25, 1947. I imagine it took Elizaveta a couple of days to get herself to Konigsberg, which is why this scene is set on February 27th.
  * **1989** — November 9, 1989 marked [the fall of the Berlin Wall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Wall#The_Fall):
    * The original intention was to open travel between East and West Berlin on November 17th, but the date the regulations were to take effect were not communicated to the man given the task of announcing them — and so an eager population gathered at the Wall that same day. The rest, as they say, is history.  

    * Gilbert's physical reliance on Ludwig is meant to presage the official reunification of Germany a year after the Wall fell, in October 1990. I've taken some liberties here, blurring the events of several months and separate geographies into a single moment of time and space, in order to include Hungary and Austria as well as East and West Germanies. While I allowed Gilbert and Ludwig to reunite before Elizaveta and Roderich, historically Hungary was the one who removed her physical border defences first (on August 23, 1989).
  * Finally, the title is borrowed from lyrics to "One of My Kind" by INXS.




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